


that one witcher fic idea that wouldn't leave me alone

by side-eyes-my-own-brain (neuronary)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuronary/pseuds/side-eyes-my-own-brain
Summary: Ciri is wandering the Continent looking for Geralt of Rivia. Jaskier is wandering the Continent doing everything he can to avoid him. When their paths cross, Jaskier realizes that he's an absolute doormat.Or, a princess bullies a bard into helping her find a witcher and it's exactly as chaotic as it sounds.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 727





	that one witcher fic idea that wouldn't leave me alone

**Author's Note:**

> i fucking hated the witcher but this idea wouldn't leave me alone. the only editing this fic got was changing 'gerald' to 'geralt'.

The poor girl looks absolutely terrified, and those guys were being pricks anyway, so, Jaskier reasons, it wasn’t awfully out of his way to make sure she had a roof over her head for the night and didn’t die before dawn broke.

She sits across from him at breakfast the next morning, looking as generally traumatized as kids do, these days - Jaskier hates this fucking war - hands shaking and eyes pleading.

She manages to connive him into giving her both of his sausages because of course she does.

\---

“I’m looking for someone,” she admits, quietly, after she’s done eating.

“Well, I’m not much in the way of muscle, but I’m not too bad at finding people. I could do with another heroic quest, at any rate, I need some new material.”

“A witcher,” she says, and Jaskier prays to Melitele that she says anything else. “His name is Geralt of Rivia.”   
  


_ Fuck _ .

\---

“How can you tell who’s lying about having seen him?”

Ciri always manages to ask the most cutting questions, even though she’s a tiny child who remains completely oblivious to Jaskier’s general state of heartbreak.

“I used to know him,” and that’s all he’s giving her. “A really long time ago.” Goddamnit.

“Oh. Why?”

“Melitele only knows, he’s an awful prick,” Jaskier laments. Ciri looks alarmed and he suddenly remembers that she’s bound to him by destiny, which is partly his own fault. “You’ll love him,” he reassures her, badly.

She’s a bit too quiet for the next few days.

“I don’t suppose you fancy learning a song on the lute?”

\---

The bard’s attitude is infectious, Ciri thinks. He’s so ridiculously optimistic, constantly, and it’s leaking over onto her as well. She doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have some happy to break up all the scared. Learning the lute is nice, although she’s not very good at it. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind too much.

She likes singing with him. He writes nice songs.

\---

Ciri’s got a good voice. Not so much for ballads of tragedy and loss, but for happier songs, jigs and such. Jaskier grins a little at the thought, that even a princess can’t avoid being a bit shit at being nobility.

“Teach me another one,” Ciri asks, puppy dog eyes wide and pleading. She’s very good at this whole manipulation business. Or Jaskier’s just getting soft.

“I haven’t got another one,” he tells her. It’s true. He’s exhausted his entire stock of happy songs.

“Write some more then.”

He might just have to.

\---

“Why don’t you like to talk about Geralt?”

He knew the question would come, eventually. It doesn’t mean he knows how to answer it.

“He didn’t like me very much,” Jaskier says eventually. “I annoyed him.”

“So? You annoy me, but you wrote a whole song about that.”

He’s written a lot of songs about Geralt, just not the kind he’d sing to an eleven year old girl who probably doesn’t even know that ‘gay’ doesn’t always mean happy yet.

“I… I messed some stuff up for him. A lot of stuff, and he got really angry with me. That,” he lightens his tone, and gestures with the rabbit leg to get a giggle out of Ciri before he continues, “is why I’m just dropping you off. I’m not getting involved in your destiny beyond that.”

Ciri pouts - actually pouts - at him.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Nope. Puppy dog eyes don’t work on me anymore, you’ve used them too much.”

\---

It’s a pretty good day, the first time Ciri has a nightmare. Jaskier had managed to coax some suggestions for lyrics out of her and she’d learned three new chords on his lute as they’d walked.

“We’ll have to get you one of your own at some point,” he’d said, offhandedly, and she’d laughed like she was being tickled. He’d put on a mockery of offense for her enjoyment - “Do you have no respect for my noble profession?” - and she’d laughed so hard she’d fallen over.

Somehow, that had led to her whimpering in her bedroll in the dark and Jaskier has no idea what to do about it. He can’t just leave it, obviously, she’s upset, but waking her might make things worse, or frighten her so much she runs away and gets caught by Nilfgaard and Melitele only knows what they’d do to her.

“Ciri, wake up.”

When that doesn’t work, he wrings out a wet handkerchief over her face and her eyes snap open with a gasp.

“Grandmother…”

Jaskier’s heart shatters at the sight of her.

“I’m sorry, Ciri, it was just a dream.”

She wraps her arms around her knees and Jaskier is really not very well-equipped to handle this situation.

“Do you want to… talk about it?” She shakes her head vigorously. “Okay, definitely not, how about a song? I can make it a new one?” A hesitant nod. Jaskier lets out a relieved breath and starts to strum.

It’s a few songs later that Ciri edges up to him and wraps her arms around his middle. He pauses his strumming and stares at her, caught off guard and slightly baffled.

“Keep going,” she sniffs. He pauses to wrap an arm around her so she doesn’t freeze to death.

It’s not easy, playing the lute with an armful of Cintran Princess, but he manages. They fall asleep against the tree, leaving Jaskier with a nasty back ache and Ciri with plenty of giggles.

“You’ll regret all that when you’re older, you know,” he calls after her, as she zooms ahead to explore the forest they’re trudging through. “Sadistic little shit,” he adds, fondly, once he’s determined she’s safely out of earshot.

\---

The Nilfgaard soldiers ambush them out of nowhere and Jaskier cannot believe he didn’t stop to consider the fact that he’s absolutely no defense for an eleven-year-old that’s being hunted by actual soldiers.

“Have you considered,” he gasps out, giving Ciri the time to scramble underneath an oak tree and hide, “a redesign of your armour? I mean, you do really look like bad guys; the black feathers, the spikes, the whole,” he gestures to distract them while he sneaks a glance towards the oak tree Ciri’s hidden under, “shebang. I just think it would be prudent to look a bit,” he yelps and leaps back to avoid having his head chopped off, “friendlier.”

“Where is the Princess?” Well, they’re very concise, at least, these soldiers.

“I imagine she’s in her father’s castle,” he suggests, feigning ignorance.

“She is here.” Well, fuck.

“Unless you think that I am she, which, despite my beauty, I can assure you I am not, I’m afraid you must be mistaken, good sir.”

It doesn’t work. The soldiers attack him and he’s still not entirely sure how he fought four men off beyond stabbing one of them when he wasn’t expecting it and stealing his sword. (Swinging wildly at everything that moves is a surprisingly effective strategy against trained soldiers.) Ciri steals a much smaller sword-type-thing and takes out another one because Calanthe raised her so of course she knows how to use a… sword-type-thing. She really, really shouldn’t have to.

“Can I keep it?” Ciri asks, when it’s over, as if she didn’t just kill someone, followed up immediately by: “That’s a lot of blood. Are you going to be okay?”

Jaskier has a lot of experience patching up gaps in people’s skin. Not usually his own, but the same basic principles apply. Ciri watches him, worried.

“What if it gets infected?”

Jaskier gives her a strained smile. “Hopefully, I will have some inspiring fever dreams.” It’s the best he can think to say. It draws out a small smile, which, given the circumstances, Jaskier is going to count as a success.

He’s not too terrible at this whole parenting thing.

Nope, definitely not going  _ there _ .

\---

The wound does not get infected, though it is a lot harder to play his lute while they walk. He discovers that Ciri’s fancy blue cloak has a much more reasonable brown lining, so they turn it inside out before carrying on. The next town they reach has yet to be touched by the war and Jaskier takes the opportunity to earn some coin before they keep looking.

“You never said if I could keep the short sword,” Ciri points out. Jaskier sighs.

“Well, you know how to use it, so I don’t see why not. Just… don’t cut any of my limbs off, and it’s fine. You should give it a name, though. Like buttercup, here.” Jaskier lifts his lute. “Something poetic, or heroic, you know, give it its own destin-”

“Stabby,” Cirilla interrupts him, because she has terrible manners.

“You cannot call your sword  _ Stabby _ , young lady.”

They bicker about it all the way back to the inn.

Jaskier loses because he always does. (He doesn't mind, really.)

\---

Ciri bullies Jaskier into teaching her how to properly bandage up wounds because she needs to know that sort of thing now that she’s being hunted by a whole empire and because it’s good practice for when she bullies Jaskier into making up with Geralt of Rivia.

He’s going to have to make up with him because Ciri doesn’t like how sad-quiet-grumpy he gets whenever she brings him up, even if he can talk for hours about literally anything else. (Including rocks.) (Ciri has turned it into a game.)

“Ow, careful,” says Jaskier when she re-wraps the cut on his arm.

“Man up,” she says, instead of ‘sorry’, because terrible bedside manner is paramount to being a good doctor. At least, she’s pretty sure it is. Probably.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“No, I’m not.”

\---

“I want to write a song.”

They’re setting up camp for the night, building a fire and making sure they’re adequately invisible to passers-by, when she finally builds up the courage to ask. Jaskier’s face lights up and she almost doesn’t say the rest, ready to try coming up with lyrics about flowers or swords or something.

“That’s brilliant! You’re getting much better at lute, you know, I’m sure it’ll be a powerful ballad to inspire the world!”

“I want to write a song about my grandmother.”

Jaskier falters, momentarily, but turns back to her with a sad smile. “Alright.”

“Will you help?”

\---

It takes three days but Jaskier happily proclaims that ‘Cintra’s Lioness’ is the best song he’s ever composed and they tour it around every inn and tavern they enter for the next week.

Until a refugee boy says some rather unnecessary but true things about Calanthe and Jaskier has to pull Ciri off of him before she rips all the hair from his scalp. They make their exit from that town quickly and apologetically and make it for three hours before Ciri bursts into tears.

Jaskier rocks her back and forth on a mossy fallen log and waits it out.

He gives her a piggyback ride until sunset.

They don’t talk about it the next day.

She and Geralt are going to get along  _ swimmingly _ .

\---

“Do you know who Yennefer is?”

“...No.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You know ‘Her Sweet Kiss’?”

“Yeah.”

“...”

“ _ Oh _ . Oh, ewwww, gross!”

\---

Jaskier’s pretty much given up hope when they find him.

Geralt, it turns out, has managed to get himself nearly killed by zombie-somethings in a forest, and was saved by a merchant farmer, who is so very kind as to give Jaskier and Ciri a ride back to his lovely home on his cart.

Geralt looks like shit.

“Hi, Geralt.”

“Jaskier?”

“This is Cirilla,” he says, and he is not proud of the way he practically hides behind her, but here he is, “you remember, I’m sure.”

He really is good at  _ shovelling shit _ , isn’t he?

Geralt just sort of stares at both of them for a while.

“Right! I’ll be off then. Ciri, you’ve got all your things?” She nods, looking a little numb. “Perfect. Bye, then.”

He is not proud of any of that five minute segment of his life, actually.

He drinks himself into bed that night.

\---

“Who’s Yennefer?” Is the first thing his child surprise says to him, followed by: “Other than Jaskier’s ex, I mean.”

Geralt chokes on his water.

“What?”

\---

Whatever Jaskier needs at Melitele-only-knows-how-early-in-the-morning when he’s hungover, Ciri sitting down opposite him (with Geralt looming over proceedings in a manner that can only be described as awkward) is not it.

“We’re back,” says Ciri, far too brightly (and loudly, but that’s just the hangover).

“I can see that,” he says, before getting up and leaving.

Ciri follows him out.

“Will you come with us?”

“No, I told you before, I’ve now dropped you off, so I’m going to go back to my normal job, thank you very much.

Ciri pouts.

“No.”

“But Geralt is boring,” she says as though she cannot imagine anything worse in the entire world.

“I’m not coming.”

“Please?”

“No.”   


“Please?”

“ _ No _ .”

“I miss your singing.”

Ciri has not, as it turns out, exhausted her puppy dog eyes enough.

  
_ Fuck _ .

**Author's Note:**

> ciri's next mission is to get geralt and jaskier to talk like reasonable people.


End file.
